The Democratic advocate., 1887-02-05

b l have said he had tender heart; tina
t is to say little. He had a capacity 70
r profound and passionate love. In tn
!, course of our rambles we made the acquaint
. ance-an ordinary young mans adventur'
of a farmers daughter, a young cir
who, not without intention, as had after
: ward reason to believe, strongly attracted
t us both. l was in love; if not for the frs
time in my life, as much as I had evel
been before. But Lucy Smiles was not q
girl l could have made my wife, and
, must do myself the justice to say that, re-
cognizing the fact early in our acquaint-
ance, broke off, with some resolution
even the semblance of Irritation. With
Malet it was different; he fell deeply and
passionately in love with the girl. The
difference in station and education seemed
not to affect him; it was impossible, indeed,
that an intellect such as his could ever
look for or expect the sympathy that
springs from equal minds, and on the one
occasion on which he spoke to me on the
subject-for reserve had sprung up be-
tween us in the matter-I inferred, though
he did not state it in so many words, that
he hoped to make Lucy his wife immedi-
ately on leaving Oxford. Shortly after
ward, the girl disappeared from her fathers
home Certain circumstances threw sus-
picion on Malet; nothing was, nothing
could be, proved against him; but, to tell
the story briefly, I thought l has reason to
believe the worst, and l believed it. All
my incipient love for the girl herself blaz-
ed up in fame of passion and jealousy,
and what l held to be righteous indigna-
ton, at the story of her disappearance and
of her parents despair Malet said very
little; he gave me his word that he had had
nothing to do in the matter; he saw that |
did not believe him, and he said no more.
l, on my side, broke with him. He had
been my best friend; on more than one oc-
casion he had served me in a way that
should have won my undying gratitude.
But what gratitude survives a sense of
wrong? And, indeed, 1 held myself not
ungratefql, but Just, broke with him.
that little note that fell under myf hands
tonight was the last ever received in his
writing; it was the last heard Of him
until that fatal evening when learned
that, under the same roof with myself, he
lay dying among strangers in a strange
land
What storm of memories, old affection,
remorse, swept over me matters little now.
Where were '1Rhts R1hiHg FOGr3a Or dying, clearness =
Allaassion should come to enlighten us at IL
or supreme moment only. turned from IL
lie window to the doctor.
a "Can see him ?" said; che was IL
g, best friend | had in the world"
ID Certainly you can see him." he apsWe
d. ed II rejoice indeed that you or any oil
lie belonging to him should be here. l wi
e. take you to him at once. He has q Int
le fever, but is otherwise quite quiet; I
to acute suffering, happily. Nothing ca
y, harm him now"
al 'Do you mean that as certainty? ?"
Sc said. Forgive me, | have no reaso
al whatever to doubt your capacity or that 20
e. have done everything that is right on II
h contrary, you inspire me with confidence
W Still, in certain cases, a consultation"
W He shook his head, smiling little.
.e lay no claim, he said, "to infallibility, an
d could l see the faintest hope in possibl
1t change of treatment I should be the frs
rt to invite consultation. But your friend
: case is hopeless; the merest tyro in my pre-
Q fession could not fail to see it at once.
n is only an unusual strength of constitutio
IL that has enabled him to live till now"
: He led the way as he spoke, up Aigh
y after flight of the shallow hotel stairs, an
n down long passage to remote and silen
part of the house. At the end of the pas
|, sage door stood ajar The doctor pause
: before we reached it. "You will no doub
it wish to remain with your friend ?" h
It said.
n "Undoubtedly," | answered,
;; He gave me Ope or two brief directions
g then, signing to me to wait for moment
d opened the door and went in. The room
i he entered was so small that, standing
S there in the doorway, 1 took it in at
n glance 1t was a little wooden room, will
I brown walls, and brown uncarpeted tlooI
r fresh and pleasing in its simplicity. On
f or two chairs, a table in the window,
). smaller one with lighted candle, and som
e vials at the head of the bed where m,
/ friend was lying, were with the bed itself
the principle furniture. He was alone
t A woman of the village who had atteude'
e him during the day was but just gone, an,
!, the doctor had undertaken to watch hin
d through the night; but not the less, tn
S silence, the loneliness in which he lay ther
j. dying, struck me painfully. He lay witt
o closed eyes, his hands spread out ON tn
s counterpane, his head supported by pillows
o The night was warm, and though the littl
d easement stood wide open, he seemed op
i pressed by the heat, and to breathe witt
It difficulty. He was not changed; in earl.
=, youth even his features had been too mark
< ed to alter readily; only the lines witt
t WHICH ! had been familiar had deepened
S and the pallor of mortal sickness oyersprea,